


A Thorough Questioning

by Lalafell_Princess



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Gen, Mild Gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-16
Updated: 2016-08-16
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:35:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21536080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lalafell_Princess/pseuds/Lalafell_Princess
Summary: Ser Aymeric has been imprisoned in The Vault. What horrors await him at the hand of Thordan's tempered knights?
Kudos: 5





	A Thorough Questioning

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally posted on my Tumblr a few years ago, but I've decided to start posting my stories and such here now. So if you've seen it there before here, that's why.

“How long have you known.”

“I won’t – _ngh!_ ”

Blood spattered on the cold stone as Aymeric was slapped for the umpteenth time. His lip was split as he squinted up at Zephirin through a black eye. The Archimandrite been at it for quite some time, trying to get information from him. Aymeric wasn’t budging, despite the dull aches coursing through his constrained body. He’d sooner die than relay knowledge about his comrades, specifically the Warrior of Light and the power of the Echo.

Zephirin looked at him disdainfully. He reached down and grabbed the Lord Commander's torn collar, pulling him up to his face. “It seems more… rigorous means will be required.” He then grinned, making Aymeric’s hairs stand on end. “Oh, but I’m not through with you yet.”

Zephirin threw the battered man down hard against the ground. He put one boot on his chest, testing his weight. Aymeric sputtered, biting his lip to keep from groaning. His hands struggled behind his back, but the rusty chains held firm.

“My only orders were to question you, and to keep you alive. And so I shall.” He ground his heel against Aymeric’s side, making him wheeze, blood dribbling down his chin. “But a good beating would suit you well, don’t you think? After all you’ve been through… Becoming Lord Commander, getting all cushy with the Warrior of Light… Just look at you now.” He spat on Aymeric, giving him one final kick. “ _Pathetic._ ”

He retreated, and Aymeric tried to pull himself into a sitting position. The grimy walls swam and his stomach lurched, and instead he found himself back on his side, vomiting. He thought he heard dark laughter outside the cell, and what sounded like ‘send for Charibert.’ His blood ran cold at the thought.

He lay there for a while, contemplating his demise. How could he have been so daft to think Thordan would hear his pleas? He knew the man well; he was far past the point of listening to reason. Maybe there was a small part of him that thought the archbishop would heed his own flesh and blood; how sorely mistaken he was. His body surged with anger and pity, mixed with throbbing pain. Would he die there? Would Ishgard be doomed to toil in lies and deceit forever? Were… were his comrades planning to come to his aid? 

He gritted his teeth; he couldn’t rely on false hope. And if they _were_ to show up and rescue him, he had to survive long enough for them to arrive. Zephirin had said they weren’t to kill him, but if they somehow obtained the information they wanted they would surely dispose of him without a second thought. He had to endure if and until help arrived. 

He then heard footfalls in the corridor. He steeled himself for what was to come next. 

“Ah, and what do we have here?” 

Soft chuckling filled the air as a robed man swept into the small cell. Charibert’s eyes seemed to glow with delight, white lips curled into a wicked grin. “A frail rat wallowing in his own sick? 

“I had hoped Zephirin wouldn’t be able to break you.” He pulled Aymeric back into a sitting position. “How I will _relish_ in your screams.” 

“You’re welcome to try,” Aymeric managed to gasp out as bravely as he could. “But I’m afraid you’ll gain nothing but silence from your endeavor.” 

Charibert’s grin only widened. 

“Don’t worry, my dear Lord Commander, we’ll start off easy.” He put on a mock expression of surprise. “Oh, but it appears you’re overdressed for this occasion. Allow me.” 

He reached down and split Aymeric’s ragged armor open, making a considerable patch of exposed skin. He left the man on his side, reaching into his robe for something thin and coiled. He cracked the whip against the stone. “Feel free to spill the names of your fellow heretics and anything else you’d like to share.” 

Aymeric shut his eyes tight. It was a dreadful sound, the leather snapping against his body. He bit his tongue hard to keep from crying out, and he tasted blood as he did so. His skin became raw from lash after lash and stung like the strongest blizzards in Ishgard. He kept his composure, only allowing small noises to escape his clenched teeth. He refused to give the sadist what he wanted. 

“Tenacious fellow, aren’t we?” Charibert wagged a finger at Aymeric’s broken and bleeding form. Red oozed from his chest, seeping down to stain the floor. “No matter.” 

The room filled with an orange glow. Flames danced in Charibert’s wild eyes as he conjured fire in his gloved hand. His skills of thaumaturgy were unparalleled, and Aymeric would have been fascinated if he weren’t terrified. Charibert let the flames lick ever so slightly against Aymeric’s skin, making him take a sharp breath. Charibert chuckled darkly. “Too hot for you?” 

He leaned in close to Aymeric’s ear. “Tell me what you know. _All of it._ ” 

“N-never.” Aymeric’s voice was raspy but resolute.

Charibert grabbed the Lord Commander's chin, silver orbs boring into sapphire ones. “ _Then face the Fury’s wrath._ ” 

His hand pushed against his wounded chest, and Aymeric couldn’t stop the scream that tore from his throat. The pain was unbearable; his chest heaved and spasmed, trying to wrench away from the fire. But Charibert held him firm, never looking away from his face, twisted in agony. Tears streamed down Aymeric’s cheeks as he cried out, unable to control himself. His mouth tried to form the words he knew would end the torment: _The Echo! T’was they who saw the truth!_ It took all his willpower not to give in. Instead he screamed until his voice was raw, while Charibert laughed, throwing his head back. Those peals of insanity would be etched into Aymeric’s mind forever. 

“Feel like speaking yet?” Charibert extinguished the flames, allowing Aymeric’s head to fall back into place. He could hardly see from his blurred vision, his body continuing to heave at will. He somehow managed to shake his head, the warm smile of the Warrior of Light the only thing keeping him going. The thought of them prevailing in their endeavors to save Ishgard, even if it meant he had to die, allowed him to suffer his wounds. 

Charibert pursed his lips. “Then so be it.” He allowed the flames to return, scorching Aymeric’s body anew. He began writhing and screaming once more, although he was unaware of it; the only sensation racking his body was pure, endless agony. Charibert gripped his ebony hair, pulling his face close to snarl nasty things: filthy heretic; never fit to rule; illegitimate scum; spineless rat. These were the last words to pierce Aymeric’s ears, besides his own wailing, before he succumbed to darkness.

* * *

“Aymeric… Fury forfend, speak, move, do _something_ …”

Aymeric’s eyelids fluttered as he fell into a coughing fit. His hands had been freed and his body propped against the wall. He looked up with great difficulty to see Estinien kneeling before him.

A smile of relief briefly crossed the dragoon’s shrouded face. “Rise and shine, Lord Commander.”

Aymeric managed a weak smile of his own. “I knew I would not be forsaken, though I might deserve to be.”

“Don’t slur nonsense at me; you haven’t the strength.” Estinien helped him up, draping one shaking arm over his back. “I do hope you can walk; carrying you all the way to confront the archbishop will look terribly unprofessional.”

A strange noise meant to be laughter left Aymeric’s mouth. Leave it to Estinien to crack jokes even in dire situations.

“Lord Commander, are you hurt?” He didn’t even notice Lucia in the darkened doorway, reaching out to assist.

“I’ll be fine,” he said, followed by another coughing fit. His chest heaved as he wheezed, scorched skin and wounds cracking open once more. Lucia was unable to mask her growing concern, teal eyes widening.

Estinien tightened his grip. “Let’s get you out of this seventh hell.”


End file.
